Worst Case Scenario
by ripooleexQlp
Summary: Quickly he surged forward,shoving Abi out of the way of the speeding truck and tripping on his own shoelace.' What if Riley had been hit by the truck in National Treasure 1? Ch 1: Ian takes Riley. Read and review!
1. Keep On Truckin'

** Worst Case Scenario**

Chapter 1- Keep On Truckin'

Abigail Marie Chase hardly bothered to look back and see whether her young companion was still behind her. In fact, she was far from even considering taking the time to glance over her shoulder. In normal cases, she would be mentally scolding her selfish behavior. However, this was _not _what one might call a "normal situation", so she let it slide. Why? Because, irritatingly ironic as this sounds, Abigail Chase was _being _chased. By men. _Several_ men. Several huge, evil, vicious men. More specifically, several huge, evil, vicious men _with guns_.

Said men were, surprisingly, not after Abigail herself (unlike some people, Stan!). If they were, she could simply have spun on her heel and done something _very _painful with her knee. But, oh no. These bozos were after something far more important. They were in search of the Declaration of Independence, which would supposedly lead them to one of the world's greatest treasures. Abi, along with Benjamin Gates and a certain Riley Poole behind her (she hoped!) had stolen the Declaration to protect it and the treasure from the hands of the menacing Ian Howe, from whom they were running like hell.

Finally, the pair of terrified treasure-protectors reached open road, where Abigail was positive Ian dared not to shoot. Unfortunately, as luck may have it, she took two seconds to glance over at Riley, and promptly smashed into a bike rider.

"Watch it!" There was nothing Riley could do _but _watch as the scene unfolded before him. This was not because of shock, nor fear, but perhaps the fact that he was being rather roughly restrained by two of what he liked to call "corporate zombies". Or at least, that's what they looked like, what with their suits and ties and stony expressions. But now wasn't the time for one of Riley's well-placed jeers, as he suddenly realized. Because, just at that precise moment, he noticed a Ford truck barreling along as Abi reached down to pick up the document she dropped in the confusion. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, falling from the sky into a well-placed death trap for the oblivious Abigail. Riley struggled free, desperately rushing to his friend's aid. He had watched two gruesome ends of two very decent people in his past. He was never going to let that happen again. Ever.

The truck blared its horn, forcing Riley away from la-la land and into the present. He wasn't going to make it. There was no way he could possibly save her. But he had to try. He could never live with himself if he didn't. Quickly he surged forward, shoving Abi out of the way and tripping on his own shoelace.

Just as Riley threw her to the ground, Abigail's fingers instinctively closed on the Declaration. She tumbled and rolled out of the way of the moving truck, not daring to move for several seconds. Then she heard a groan from not too far off. Riley. Slowly, she lifted herself into a sitting position and glanced to her left, scanning the crowd for the young man's face.

"Riley? Riley, it's okay. I've got it! I'm okay!" No response. Maybe she just wasn't loud enough. She tried again. Nothing. _What is up with all these crowds? _That's when she saw it. _It_ was actually Riley, covered in blood and bruises. He was curled up helplessly on the pavement, clutching at his stomach. Abi stared in shock. This wasn't happening. This _couldn't _be happening. Not to Riley. Not to her. Just when 

things seemed at their worst, a black van crept its way through the crowd. No one paid it any mind. Except Abigail. She, unlike the others, happened to recognize the driver for what he was. _Ian._

Ian grinned maliciously to himself as he stepped from the van. The accident couldn't have occurred at a better time. He no longer needed a map. Not when he had something Gates would be more than willing to trade for. Casually, he strolled through the mass of people to where the injured boy lay. "Has anyone called an ambulance?" This came from a plump woman to his left. A brilliant idea popped into his mind. The perfect way to sneak off with Riley.

"No bloody ambulance is going to make it through all this mess. We'll take him in my car." The instant those words left the British man's lips, Abi wanted to shout "_No!"_ and get her friend as far away from him as possible. But she couldn't. She couldn't remember how to make her legs move. All she could do was watch powerlessly as Ian scooped Riley up in his arms like a baby and toss him into the backseat of his van._  
_


	2. Breaking the News

** Worst Case Scenario**

**If you read it and like it, review, please. If you don't like it, don't read the next chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Refer to chapter 1 for details. (That sounded like a TV commercial)**

Chapter Two: Ouch

**Riley's POV**

Okay, _what _just happened? One minute, I'm running from a small pack of bloodthirsty gorillas, and the next? The next moment I feel like someone set off a load of dynamite in my ribcage. Well, alright, now I just need to figure out why I decided to come down with this terrific tummy-ache. Too many cookies? I think not. Hold up, I'm on the ground now? Great, let's add _mouth full of tar _to my problems. I have to find out what's going on here, but I can't get up. Backtracking works too.

Now, once upon a time, in a magical place called Philadelphia, there was an evil wizard named Ian, who used his pet monkeys—Okay, yeah. _No._ Starting over.

So I was running for my life with the nation's most important document and a nagging blonde, while being run down by the world's stupidest goons. Seriously, if Ian's so rich, can't he hire people who won't just stand there drooling and going "duuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh……… I don't know". Anyways, Abi, the so acclaimed _smart one_, went off and tripped in the middle of the street, which left me to go rescue her or, whatever. And so I did, only I fell….. in front of the big, scary truck. See, now this is why I'm no Superman. More like Lois, only _I'm_ a guy. The Ford smashed into me head-on with all the force of a log truck. C'mon, man, it's called the _breaks. _Ever heard of them? The force of the impact sent me hurdling towards the pavement with my knees slammed into my chest. I landed on my knees first, irritating my already injured stomach to a degree I can't even describe. Rolling over twice, I came to an abrupt halt a few yards from where I started.

Okay, I know what happened. That's an improvement. Now to just get everyone to shut up. God, is it really that necessary to scream my ear off, lady? Finally, I manage to look up at the peering faces above me. I'm beginning to wish I didn't, because what do you know, there's the jackass himself, so put your hands together for Iaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnn Howe! Wait a sec, why is he coming over _here_—I sure don't have the "bloody map"—and why is he grinning at me like that? Okay he just picked me up. Awkward. _Can you put me down now?_ And now I'm in the van. Crap. The car starts, and we're driving away. I pass out.

Ben, who had been having quite a few problems of his own, finally found peace in the form of an overcrowded coffee shop. He was just starting to relax when, of course, his phone starts to ring. Throwing that annoying little contraption through the cheap glass window would have been his next course of action had it not been for the fact that it could have been Riley. But the only reason Riley would call was……….. if there was a problem. A big one. Third ring and Ben finally answers.

"Ben?" Abigail was currently frightened out of her wits. She hadn't been able to move until the crowds started to disperse and her brain started working. Now she was sitting on a park bench as far away from the scene as she felt she could go, as if leaving would erase the fact that it ever happened and Riley would soon pop up behind her with his cheesy little grin. But he didn't, and she still needed to face Ben after telling him that she had let his best friend be hit by a truck.

"Oh, Abi. Thought you were Riley for a second there." Ben's almost cheerful voice rang out from the other line. Girls always call over nothing. Someone could have sprained an ankle or broken a nail. They'd be alright. "So do you still have the Declaration?"

"Well, yes but…….." She couldn't bring herself to say it. But she had to. Ben had to know what was going on. "Ben, I… uh, I lost Riley." Abi waited expecting yelling, scolding, crying, anything but what Ben did next. He laughed a relieved chuckle that made Abi wish she could reach through the phone line and smack him.

"I wouldn't worry about that Abigail. Riley's always running off by himself, you know how he is." Oh. He thought she meant Riley ran off on purpose. Well ha, ha this, Benjamin Gates.

"No, Ben I really _lost _him." A pause as Ben tried to let this sink in, and failed miserably. "Ian took him. I don't know where they went." Five minutes ticked by, two of silence, another two filled with Ben's cursing, and the last with a fear-filled tension, before Ben finally spoke.

"How?" Abi took a deep breath and launched into her explanation.

Meanwhile, back in the van, Riley was in an excruciating amount of pain. He had already taken stock, and as far as he was aware, he had what were probably a fractured rib, and a fancy stomach problem whose name he couldn't remember. Oh, not to mention he was surrounded by psychos. No one seemed to notice he was awake yet, and he intended to keep it that way. He would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those rotten ribs and their stupid belly. The young man let out a quiet curse, which caused the others to turn quickly in his direction.

"I didn't even know you knew that word," Ian sneered, smirking as Shaw and Powell began to applaud lightly at Riley's new vocabulary.

"Yeah, and I can use it in a sentence too. For example: Fuck you." Despite his injuries and the knowledge that he wasn't exactly in a position to be cracking jokes, Riley smiled to himself. However, he stopped smiling when he received a fantastic blow to the head. _Maybe I should shut up now._ These were his last thoughts before his world took on a shade of gray, then finally, blackness.

**AN: I updated. Yay! And so yeah……..reviews, please? It makes me sad if you don't I'd like to hear what people think of this, so I know if it's crap or not. Should I do a better summary? It sounds bad to me.**


	3. Sweet Dreams? I wish

** Worst Case Scenario**

Chapter Three: Sweet Dreams? I Wish

**Disclaimer: I do not own National Treasure or anything that has to do with it. This makes me sad.**

**AN: OMG! I am SSOOO sorry for not updating! I will be quicker next time, I promise. Anyways, this is a memory Riley has while he's unconscious. Warning: Sad, really sad once you stop to think about it. Tissues ready? Then read on!**

_"Riley?" One very confused, very exhausted nine-year-old boy, looking very much like his little brother, propped himself up on the mattress and stared bleary-eyed at the small, shadow- framed boy in the doorway. "What are you doing?" he yawned._

_"Gettin' a dwink…" The younger boy trailed off, his short attention span getting the better of him. He looked all around him, never moving his feet, only his head. Suddenly he remembered just what he was doing out of bed and piped up, breaking the awkward silence. "Ya want some?"_

_Spencer Poole rolled his eyes at his baby brother's unpredictable losses and gains of interest in the situation at hand; what went on in that head of his, the world may never know. It wasn't fair, he supposed, calling a six-year-old "baby" when he was just nine. But on the other hand, it did make him feel important. Wait a minute, now__** he**__ lost his train of thought! Riley must have given him some contagious forgetting disease or something! He turned back to the question at hand with a sleepy mumble of "Whatever", and settled down to panic in his sleep._

_"Mmmkay! Be wight back!" With that, Riley trotted down the stairs, making it to the bottom in record time, though not as quietly as he wanted. Oh, well. Back to the drinks. Standing on tippy-toe, he was able to reach his favorite cup in the world, and Spencer's, too. Pleased with his discovery, he filled each mug almost to the very top, struggling slightly with his awkward grip on the handle of the milk jug. __**'These things are heavy'**__ was his epiphany of the day as he set the container back in the fridge with a grunt. He popped the drinks in the microwave and, with the help of a footstool, peered curiously at the lit space, letting the warm light wash over his young face. When the milk was done, he started back up the stairs, only to drop them at the sudden sight of his daddy. Both heads tipped down in a similar fashion to the other to stare at the spilt milk that was starting to warm up their feet._

_"Sowwy, Daddy." Jonathan Poole looked up (or down, rather), exasperated, at his son._

_"Never mind," he sighs. "Listen, Riley, Daddy has to go away for awhile, okay? But Spencer's gonna take good care of you, and I'll send you down to Uncle Pete's 'till Mommy and I can come get you guys, okay?" This was it. Possibly his final goodbye to his son and this is what he had to say. Sending his boys away and moving to Manhattan with his wife wasn't his first choice of action, but Peter said it was safer that way, for him and the kids. Besides, Pete was a cop, he could take care of this until they arrested these guys and then it would all be back to normal. Suddenly a bang was heard at the door. "Shit." He turned back to Riley. "Don't ever repeat that". These were his final words to his son before he shoved the boy into the nearby closet. "Stay here. Don't make a sound"._

_"Are we playing hide-and-seek?"_

"_Will you be quiet if I say yes?" Taking the boy's nod for an answer, he slammed the door shut and turned to face his worst nightmare._

_"Long time, no see, Johnny boy." Taking a peek through the hole in the doorknob, Riley could make out three men, two being strangers and the other, his daddy. Those men didn't look very nice. They looked like big, dumb bullies. That's when he saw it. He was looking around the room as best he could, trying to see if there was anyone else out there, when he spotted her. His mother. He hadn't thought much of her absence; he thought she was sleeping upstairs. But there she lay, dead, on the carpet she loved so much, staining it with her blood. A silver glint caught his attention. It was the shiny steak knife that he was never, ever, ever, ever, ever allowed to touch, __**ever**__. Until now he had never understood why, but he got the message crystal clear. He stumbled backwards in shock, knocking a broom into some old pots hanging on the wall, and doing the one thing his daddy had warned him not to do: he made a noise, and a loud one at that._

_Outside the door, the three arguing men froze in place, listening intently for a repeat of the sound. One of them, obviously the leader, dropped the gun he'd been aiming at Poole's head. He was a strong man, tall with hair so blonde it was almost white. A scar ran down his face, reaching from his left eyebrow to just below his ear. His partner, smaller and with dark hair, hung back in a much less intimidating gesture. _

_"What was that?" he asked, scanning the room for the culprit._

_"What was what?" John mentally cursed himself. Of course he had heard the clatter; who wouldn't? That last line pretty much gave it away, he could tell, as a knowing smile crept to the muscular intruder's face._

_"Hmmm…" he hummed, rubbing his chin in mock concentration. "It looks like Johnny's got himself a little rat problem. How's about we help the poor guy, Clark?" Oh, shit. _

_"Uhhh… no, thanks. I've got poison in there. You know, 'cause like, my wife's sister lives in there, and she's a __**really **__ugly sight at three in the fuckin' morn, so…" His excuses proved useless as the smaller man threw open the door and jerked the frightened boy out of the cramped closet and into the living room. "Aw… you didn't tell us you had a wittle munchkin Johnny." The blonde snorted as he listened in on his partner's cheap imitation of a toddler and pinched Riley's cheek, reminding the young boy of his great-aunt Margie before she died, and he twisted away with a scowl._

_"W-What are you, my Gwandma?" His face flushed as the two jerks laughed at his sill developing 'speaking skills'. Looking about frantically for some way of escape, he spotted his father, who had just recently scooped the forgotten pistol off the floor and was now in the process of dropping the hammer back. The others turned at the sound of their .22's safety being clicked off. _

_"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not polite to make fun of little boys with a stutter?" John sighed, trying to keep his cool. He really didn't want to shoot these guys, __**especially **__in front of his kid. Even if they deserved it. Did they deserve it? Does anyone? He was just about to lower the gun, for he was too chicken, when something caused him to jerk it back up in surprise. The small, dark-haired man had pulled the knife from his wife's stomach and he thought he heard her gasp, but ruled it to be his imagination and turned to face his newest problem: those bastards had pressed the bloody knife right up to his son's throat._

_"Didn't __**your **__mom tell you not to play with those things? After all," he continued, ignoring his friend's amused smirk and hostage's whimper, "someone might get hurt…" With that, he made the tiniest cut across Riley's throat, just deep enough to draw blood. Understanding the message being sent, John tossed the gun, where it landed at the blonde's feet. One… two…. three shots were fired before Jonathan Matthew Poole fell to the ground, and died to the sound of his son's mournful sobs._

_As if killing the boy's father right before his eyes weren't enough, the small boy suffered a blow to the head with the butt of the gun. Deciding to finish him off along with the parents, the black-haired man struck a match, lit a candle, and poured whiskey over the floor. He nonchalantly knocked the candle over and strolled out, as casual as could be, leaving the dying family in his wake._

_Spencer groaned and turned on his side for the millionth time. How long could it possibly take to get some milk for crying out loud? Another five minutes ticked by, and still no Riley. There was a slight creak from downstairs, then voices, a thud, and crying, followed by an even quieter thump. __**'Riley must have dropped something' **__he convinced himself, trying to shake off his doubts, which held a much more convincing argument then he did. Just as he started to close his eyes, a crackle was heard. __**'Bump in the night? Maybe I should check it out.'**__ Before he could stop himself he bounded down the stairs and called out, as bored-sounding as he could manage, "What's taking so long?" _

_He peered about cautiously and rubbed his eyes. He was dreaming. This wasn't real. Those couldn't be his dead parents; his house just couldn't be on fire. It was impossible. Finally his senses caught up with him and the only coherent thought running through his mind was __**'Where's Riley?'**__ Frantically he began calling out, hoping, praying Riley would come to him, seeing as he was glued to the spot._

"_Wha'?" Spencer nearly melted with relief and, forgetting his fear, dodged the burning furniture to get to his brother. Grabbing the young boy's hand, he dashed through the blaze, dragging a still dazed Riley out the front door. Relieved and exhausted, he pulled Riley close to him in a reassuring hug. Riley had begun to cry without remembering why. He knew something was wrong, but what? Confusion swept over him and he buried his face into Spencer's chest. _

_That wasn't even the worst part. Mrs. Poole's knife injury hadn't killed her, merely knocked her out from shock and pain. Now, as the inferno flared around her, she let out her final, dying scream before the fire engulfed her. Everyone was crying now, it seemed. The neighboring families that had known John and Rebecca for so long, a small group of the recent arrival of firemen as they watched one of their own men die by the hand of the very fire he used to put out so effectively (They're talking about John Poole, in case that was confusing), children, adults, __**everyone.**__ And in the middle of it all, of all the people who wouldn't stop repeating 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry' over and over, stood the Poole brothers, watching with a growing sense of horror as their lives crumpled beneath them…_

**AN: Well that was depressing. Don't worry, I just got my idea for the next chapter, but suggestions for chapter five would be loved. You know what? That's officially a contest. Send in your ideas in a review, I'll choose the best one that fits in my story line, and dedicate a chapter to that person. **

**P.S. : If I don't choose your idea for Ch. 5, I might choose it for another chapter. Read and review! (No flames)**


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